Lady Of Fire (38 page)

Though tempted to feign sleep in the hope he would loosen his hold on her, she said, “I am awake.”

“What are you thinking?”

“How nice it would have been to stay at the inn we passed earlier,” she lied. “As you say, it is cold.”

He rose onto an elbow and rolled her to her back. “Do I not keep you warm?”

“It is not you, Rashid. It is the weather.”

He swept the hair off her brow. “There are other ways to be warm,” he said and drew a finger down her throat to the neck of her gown. “I am thinking we need not wait until we are wed.”

The suggestion shocked her, for never would she have expected this of him. She summoned what she hoped was a regretful smile. “We are not alone.”

He glanced at the Frenchman. “We could be.”

“Nay, Rashid. I…wish to be pure on our wedding night in accordance with your faith.”

“But you do not share my beliefs.”

“It is also the Christian belief.”

His eyes delved her face, then he kissed her. “If that is what you desire.”

Alessandra was grateful he did not linger over the intimacy, else she might have had to pretend a response she did not feel.

“You love me, do you not?” he asked. “As your mother loved my father?”

Only as her childhood friend. Never as a woman should love a man. Never as she loved Lucien. “I have always loved you,” she half lied.

He smiled, closed his eyes as if to impress her words upon his mind, then said, “Our parents’ love was great. I am certain my father continues to mourn Sabine’s death.”

Mention of the loss of her mother made her ache, remembrance of the circumstances under which she had died stirred her anger. Knowing it best not to let Rashid see how deeply she was affected, she determined to ask the question to which she yet lacked an answer. “What was your mother’ punishment, Rashid?”

Pain, revealed by firelight, lined his face. “Leila is dead.”

Alessandra knew she should not feel relief, but she did. The murdering woman could injure no others.

“How?” she asked, though she was not certain she truly wished to know.

His dark eyes became distant. “For my sake, Father agreed to return her to her family for what she had done—to be finished with her forever—but she would not let it be.”

“What do you mean?”

“She asked for a farewell embrace, and when Father complied, she tried to stab him. He wrested the dirk from her and, in anger, turned it on her.” He swallowed loudly. “She died laughing, Alessandra. It was the most gruesome thing I have seen—laughing and cursing Father, Sabine, you, even me.”

Alessandra cupped his jaw. “I am sorry. I know it must hurt.”

His bitter smile turned sweet. “Of course you do.”

“And Khalid?” she asked.

He gave a short laugh. “He would be dead now had he not disappeared.”

“He left Algiers?”

“That surprises you?”

“Algiers is his home. But why do you say he would be dead?”

“You do not know it was he who aided De Gautier in your escape?”

She knew, but feared confirming Rashid’s belief should Khalid resurface. “No, and I do not believe it.”

“Believe it, Alessandra. He is the one who purchased a eunuch who was not a eunuch, who did not give punishment where punishment was due.”

 
“How do you know that?”

“That he did not bastinado De Gautier as ordered?”

She nodded.

“Had Khalid obeyed me, the Englishman could not have escaped, much less taken you with him. He would have been crippled—or nearly so.”

“Was that what you wished?” she whispered, horrified at the ease with which he spoke.

“Do not look at me like that,” he snapped. “What I wanted was to see him dead—and he would have been had I not feared what you might think of me.”

Risking further inciting him, she asked, “Why do you want me, Rashid?”

He lay back. “You have been mine since the beginning. From the moment your mother pulled aside the blanket and let me see the girl child within.”

“But you could not have been more than two.”

“About that, but I remember. My mother had been sent away because of Sabine.”

Alessandra nearly told him the reason Jabbar had banished Leila that first time—for trying to poison her mother—but there was nothing to be gained in burdening him with another terrible truth.

“To stop my crying,” he continued, “Father promised me that one day you would be mine. Perhaps it would have appeased me, and I would have shed no more tears, but your mother would not let me hold you. She said I was too young, that I could look but not touch.”

“And so Leila came back.”

“Yes, and even she tried to keep me from you, but I was determined to claim you. And I finally did.”

“As you are claiming me now.”

“There is nothing dishonorable in it. It is as Allah wills a woman to be.”

“And if I do not wish to be claimed?”

His eyebrows descended. “You will be happy with me. As first wife, the harem will be yours to govern, and do you give me a son, you will be mother of my heir.”

What Alessandra had once accepted with wide-eyed innocence was no longer enough. She wanted a husband and children, but not with Rashid. No longer did he figure into her world, having been left far behind the day Lucien had entered the harem. The boy in Rashid might have understood that, but not the man.

She closed her eyes and turned her face away. “I am tired. It has been a long day.”

Without further words, he once more curved an arm around her.

Alessandra lifted her lids a fraction and met Jacques’s gaze that was just visible above the blanket he had pulled up over his nose.

You are going to help me get out of this
, she silently told him.

As if he heard, he nodded.

Something did not fit.

For what seemed the hundredth time, Lucien paced the camp, working forward and backward what was known and what was not. When, at last, his worn mind found the fit, he cursed and strode to where Breville and the others made their beds around the campfire.

“Surely your father taught you stealth in murdering a man in his sleep,” James muttered when Lucien knelt beside him.

“Tell me,” Lucien rasped, “did you ever discover the means by which Catherine was stolen from Corburry?”

James lifted his head, squinted at him. “Nay, I returned early morn from a two-day trip and found her missing. Some time between eve and dawn she was taken.”

“You do not know if she received a message that would have summoned her out of the castle during the night?”

“How would I know that? ’Twas assumed a De Gautier had taken her from our bed.”

Lucien thrust to his feet. “You assumed wrong, Breville, just as we assumed wrong in thinking Alessandra’s captor would take her to Southampton.”

The man sat up. “What say you?”

“We ride!”

Shortly, in the dark of middle night, the Southampton-bound party turned their mounts toward London.

“
Mon dieu
,” Jacques blurted as he swept his gaze over the room into which the rotund woman had led them.

Peeking out from her hood, Alessandra agreed with his assessment, but kept her head lowered as Rashid had instructed.

“You want, I could send a girl up to sweep it out,” the woman said.

“No.” Rashid pushed Alessandra ahead of him. “It will suffice.”

The woman peered at him, trying to see his face beneath his hood, then returned her regard to the Frenchman who had so charmed her she seemed to have forgotten the not-so-distant defeat suffered by the English at the hands of the French.

“If there be anything ye need”—she gave a gray-toothed smile—“ye’ll let Anna know, hmm?”

“Of course, mademoiselle,” Jacques said. “I will come to you directly.”

With an immense swing of her hips, she turned back down the corridor.

Rashid closed the door behind him and tossed back the hood to reveal his distinctly Arabic countenance. “Now we wait.”

For the ship that, on the morrow, would deliver Rashid to his homeland, Alessandra reflected. Though he did not know it, she would not be with him—providing the plan hastily conceived with Jacques succeeded. It had to, since her scheme of delaying their journey had failed.

Knowing the time constraints they were under to reach the ship before it departed, she had done her best to slow their progress these past days. But despite feigned malady, a saddle that mysteriously came uncinched, and the disappearance of their provisions, Rashid had not slowed. Now they were in London, and the morrow would tell what was to be her fate.

Misinterpreting her silence, Rashid said, “It is only for one night.”

She lowered her hood and looked to where Jacques stood at the window. “Only one night,” she echoed.

Missing their exchange, Rashid crossed to the bed, patted the lumpy mattress, and threw back the blanket to reveal frantically scattering insects. He yelped and lurched back.

“This you prefer to sleeping out-of-doors?” he demanded.

Alessandra hastened forward and brushed the insects to the rush-strewn floor. “At least it will be warmer, and there is food to be had belowstairs.”

“Such a primitive lot,” Rashid grumbled. “It will be bliss to be back in Algiers.”

“It will,” she absently agreed.

He snapped his gaze to her and smiled. “Perhaps it will not be so bad,” he said and gingerly lowered to the mattress. “At least it is soft between the lumps.”

Jacques started toward the door. “I will see what food can be had. You are hungry, yes?”

“Very,” Alessandra answered.

“You, Rashid?”

He grimaced. “Not for English fare.”

“Sorry, my friend,” the Frenchman said. “You will have to wait until we reach the Maghrib to satisfy your craving.” He slipped Alessandra a cryptic look, and was gone.

Having feared Rashid would not allow him to leave alone, she released her breath.

In the silence, Rashid’s eyes appreciatively considered her, making her intensely aware it was the first time they were truly alone since he had taken her from Corburry.

Alessandra removed her cloak, draped it over the back of a rickety chair, and wandered to the window to peer down into the filthy street. Moments later, Jacques emerged from the inn and took off at a run. Dragging fingers through her hair, she watched until he went from sight.

Hurry
, she silently urged, then shifted her gaze to the bits of gray water visible between the buildings that separated the inn from the harbor. Somewhere out there, was the ship that would return Rashid home.

She heard the bed creak, then his footsteps over the grit and dry rushes covering the floor. Halting at her back, he put his arms around her.

Alessandra tensed. Surely he did not intend to become intimate with Jacques soon to return? She looked down at where he clasped his hands over her abdomen.

They were nice hands. Though smaller than Lucien’s, Rashid’s were so smooth and unblemished she imagined they would glide over her like silk. But it was the rasp of Lucien’s worn, calloused hands, their strength and familiarity, that she longed to feel. Between silk and coarse wool, she would choose the latter.

“You will soon forget him and think only of me,” Rashid murmured. “Trust me in this, Alessandra.”

How had he known? And what of her ruse these past days—affecting an attitude of acceptance and favor toward him?

“What speak you of?” she clung to her deception.

He brushed aside her hair and placed his lips near her ear. “Though you say you love me, I know it is not true. Still, I am certain you will come to feel for me as your mother felt for my father, and all that fire of yours will belong to me.”

“But I do love you, Rashid.”

He touched his mouth to her ear, trailed it down her neck to her shoulder. “As a brother, but soon as your lover.”

She tried to turn to him, but he gripped her firmly about the waist and drew his other hand up her ribs.

“You think the Englishman would make you happy.” He nuzzled her nape. “But once I lie with you, you will feel different.”

How vain, Alessandra thought, then reminded herself of the culture in which she had been raised, where a man was the supreme master. His wives, especially if there were many, magnified his self-importance with their eagerness to gain his sexual attention.

Still, Rashid seemed in an amiable mood, and Alessandra thought it might be worth the risk of reasoning with him. She owed it to him to try one last time.

“Rashid, your mother, my mother, even Jabbar said I would not make you a good wife. Surely you have not forgotten?”

He let her hair fall back into place and turned her to him. “They were wrong.”

“They were not. These English you detest—I am one of them. I always have been, always shall be, and England is where I belong.”

His smile was indulgent, though also bitter. “With me is where you belong. You are mine—”

“I am not a possession. I am your friend, and that is all.”

“You will be more when we are wed. I promise you, it will be the same as what was between Jabbar and Sabine.”

She wanted to shake him, to loosen his crazy ideal of love. Instead, she said, “Yes, Rashid, my mother did love your father, but I am not Sabine. Never will we have the great love our parents had. Friends is all we will be, and perhaps not even that if you force me to return to Algiers.”

He pecked a kiss on her lips, then released her and returned to the bed. He removed his cloak, spread it on the mattress, and laid down. “Join me?”

“Did you hear nothing I said?”

He clasped his hands behind his head. “I heard, and the discussion is done.”

“But we have only just begun.”

“Done, Alessandra. I will speak of it no more.”

“But—”

“Enough!”

Fighting tears, she swung back to the window and silently bemoaned,
He leaves me no choice. None at all.

“Vincent!” Lucien dropped to his knees and turned his brother.

Lids lowered, blood caking his face from the gash on his forehead, Vincent did not respond.

Lucien pulled him into his arms, called again, “Vincent!”